I’m hug hungry…hug starved. Is huglorn a word?
There was hand sanitizer at every place setting, the centerpiece was a bowl filled with rubber gloves, and for desert we had our choice of individually wrapped pastries.
I’m what you call a hugger. I hug like I mean it, because I do. I tend to take that extra nanosecond to feel the hug through to my soul.
Three weeks ago Garth and I had our very first social outing since PCM1 (Pandemic Consciousness Month 1). We were invited to lunch at the home of some of our closest friends who assured us that CP (Covid Precautions) would be in place. Judy’s nature is to take things beyond what’s expected (even offering me the face shield seen in my featured image which I tried on for fun but didn’t end up wearing), and true to her nature, had seen to the umpteenth detail. The table was set outside on the deck with six feet between each of us. There was hand sanitizer at every place setting, the centerpiece was a bowl filled with rubber gloves, and for desert we had our choice of individually wrapped pastries. We had a fine time catching up and sharing our pandemic and political tales of woe, it was almost as good as “before,” but we couldn’t hug.
Two weeks ago we donned masks and met with other masked friends at the Huntington Library & Gardens. The management had seen to every detail: Reservations (and masks) were required, and only so many people were allowed to wander the grounds at a time. Our temperatures were taken, there was hand sanitizer just about wherever you looked, and foot traffic on the miles of meandering pathways was directed and restricted so we could maintain social distancing. It was wonderful to see our dear friends and share our delight in such a beautiful setting, but we couldn’t hug.
Last week my granddaughters, having seemingly quite suddenly grown up and flown the coop, took off to share their first apartment as they begin exciting new lives as college students in Santa Barbara, and I didn’t get to see them off or hug them goodbye.
I haven’t hugged my daughter in…I can’t remember how long. This daughter that I would give my life for, I can’t hug. Now there’s a dichotomy for you.
Garth and I hug several times a day. And I hug Charlie, even though I looked it up and the Internet says dogs don’t really like being hugged. But I do it anyway. Because, you know, I’m a hugger.
Artist, writer, storyteller, spy. Okay, not a spy…I was just going for the rhythm.
I call myself “an inveterate dabbler.” (And my husband calls me “an invertebrate babbler.”) I just love to create one way or another. My latest passion is telling true stories live, on stage. Because it scares the hell out of me.
As a memoirist, I focus on the undercurrents. Drawing from memory, diaries, notes, letters and photographs, I never ever lie, but I do claim creative license when fleshing out actual events in order to enhance the literary quality, i.e., what I might have been wearing, what might have been on the table, what season it might have been. By virtue of its genre, memoir also adds a patina of introspection and insight that most probably did not exist in real time.